Chapter 50

Two Sides of a Coin

The room was bright.

Cold white light from the Crystone lampshade lay thin across the teacups and their dull-gold rims.

Heavy curtains held the windows shut. Only a corner of the big garden showed outside. A few gardeners stood scattered among the beds—motion dulled by glass and cloth, like shadows from another world.

Young maids poured tea around the table.

They were tall, dresses somewhere between gray-blue and pale gold—better cloth than anything on the street, yet careful not to show it. Tea, towels, coats hung up: almost no sound. A soft order, a soft "Yes," and nothing more.

At the head of the long table, a fair-haired man looked down at a stack of papers, shadows pooled in the deep sockets of his eyes. He didn't touch his cup. White-gloved fingers only turned the page corners.

The others waited for him to finish the last sheet.

"Begin."

The maids set the tea things back on their trays at once. A moment later they filed along the wall and out the side door, leaving only a tall figure in white by the entrance.

He didn't leave, and he didn't sit. Black hair tied loosely at the nape, light armor plates at chest and shoulder, a long sheathed blade slanted across his back, the hilt showing a little at the shoulder. He stood between the door and the head of the table.

"The marches in town—this isn't the first time lately," said the man at the head. "Report."

A fat man at the table smiled first.

He wore a soft-crowned cap pulled low. Folds of cheek and jaw stacked in layers; his eyes were squeezed into thin curves—like a Shar-Pei kept too well.

"Unions," he drawled, "are just rabble bunched together. Always hunting a chance to kick up dust. The shops will feel it some. Small matter. Small matter."

He might have laughed again, but the fair-haired man at the head lifted his eyes. The fat man's smile tightened. Short thick fingers tapped the table once, and he let the chatter die.

Across from them a woman smoothed her robe. Copper-brown skin, dark hair coiled at the nape, a pale-gray physician's coat neat from collar to cuff.

"The hospital's been hit too," she said. "A few doctors and nurses on strike. Emergency trauma up about thirty percent. If this keeps on, we'll have a problem."

To the head's right, a tall woman in white set a folder on the table. Pale-gold hair lay flat down her back—not a stray strand at her brow. That white stood out hard in the room.

"Fortunately the marches haven't touched Crystone mining much," she said. "Not many workers still on the books at the pits or the plants joined the union drive. A real mass strike would be hard for them to pull off."

Then she turned the knife.

"But Lena's right. If this wind keeps blowing, the damage only gets worse."

No one answered.

After a short silence the fair-haired man at the head spoke.

"Crystone mining is our core—our footing. It must not be shaken."

He pushed the papers toward the middle of the table.

"Their demands."

"Three main buckets." The woman in white opened the folder. "First and foremost, shorter hours and more jobs. Second, welfare and safety—injury cover, protective gear, employee medical insurance, and so on. Last, they want more guaranteed housing."

The woman in the physician's coat looked at the man at the head. "We're short-handed at the hospital as it is. If you're worried about this spreading, why not open a few more positions on our side?"

"Lena." He didn't push back at once—only rested a gloved fingertip on the paper's edge. "Hospitals aren't like other trades. Don't lump them together."

The woman in white cut in fast. "You could expand hospital staffing on your own authority—that's fine—but not now. More openings and people on the job stop feeling how hard work is to find. People waiting for work stop undercutting wages. Do you know what that costs us?"

Beside them an old man in loose robes set a folding fan on the table, fingers light on the ribs, and took up the thread without hurry.

"Emperor Taizong's true long game—fleece every hero till their hair goes white."

His beard and hair were iron-gray. A broad sash at the waist, wide sleeves. A constant smile sat on his face—polite, and hard to press past.

The fair-haired man nodded once.

"Then we're agreed. Hours and jobs are off the table."

The woman in the physician's coat—Lena—didn't drop it yet. Her fingers rested on the edge of a chart folder. She waited a beat before she spoke.

"What about a wage bump? That should cool people down some—and shut the union up."

The woman in white lifted her eyes.

"We're not the only outfit on this waste. Costs climb, and others take our market faster. You know—those people aren't as civilized as we are."

The man at the head looked at Lena.

"Even if I allowed it, General Bahram wouldn't. He partners with whoever delivers the most value."

Lena pressed her lips thin and said nothing more.

Only then did the fair-haired man turn to the other side of the table.

"That said, we still have to put a lid on this. Their other points—safety, housing—Mansour, Sylvie, work something out. There's room to move there."

A very soft laugh came from the far end of the long table.

"Housing…" Faisal Mansour leaned back in his chair, sunglasses still on. Indoor light slid along the rims. "President White, you know our line isn't easy. Land out on the waste is plentiful. We only pull people in because Rusak has the jobs, the hospitals, the schools. If 'guaranteed housing' takes hold, my margins don't look good."

President White at the head didn't take the bait.

"You can't manage that?" he asked. "Build quality, loan terms, leases—which of those can't be adjusted? Stop staring at your own cut."

Mansour pushed his sunglasses up. The tone stayed casual, but his posture tightened a fraction.

"Understood, President. I'll handle it. Guaranteed slots first for people already on the job, and the dangerous trades. Keep the numbers small. Make the wait long. On loans I'll talk with Councilor Sylvie—she's the authority there."

The woman in white—Sylvie—didn't take the flattery. She only turned a page of the file in front of her.

The fat man smiled and jumped in. "Protective gear we can start on high-risk work—sandblasting and the like. Swap in a new batch, tighten write-offs. Workers get something, and we don't lose."

The old man with the fan said, "Tie what you've said to school enrollment, and it may hold better. Parents always care most about the children."

He closed the fan slowly, tapped the ribs once in his palm, and left it there.

The fat man spread his hands, the folds deepening with his smile.

"See? There's a way. A batch of gear, a few housing units, the rules in our hands—and the union gets what it asked for."

White closed the stack of papers.

"Good. The union matter is settled. Go draft the detailed plan."

Heads around the table nodded in turn.

White's knuckles tapped the cover.

"Next—expansion. The outer villages are still mostly farming. Banpong, your piece."

"Yes, President White." Banpong, the fat man, sat a little straighter at once. "We've already been pushing seed sales for the new-line crops. A few villages outside curse the price to your face—but come spring famine, they'll fear going without. Follow-on new produce is in development too."

Sylvie in white finally showed the thinnest change of expression.

"We don't eat that new stuff. Mind yourself."

Banpong's smile softened further. "Of course. The council tables and the hospitality kitchens have their own supply—pre-Impact stock, fully reliable, absolutely safe. The new lines are for the markets. People have to eat, after all."

It sounded gentle. Nobody in the room mistook him.

Lena looked down through her notes, then asked suddenly, "And long-term safety verification?"

Banpong looked blank. "What?"

"The new-line crops and young livestock," Lena said. "We've had a few rash and GI cases at the hospital. Can't prove a link—can't rule one out either. If the flyers keep saying one hundred percent safe and something breaks later, I'm the one left holding it."

Banpong's smile stayed. The curve in his eyes narrowed.

"Doctor Lena—ah, Professor Lena—of all people, you'd know to choose your words. This many people in town, eating this today and that tomorrow—feeling off doesn't mean it's the new crops. And without this stuff, what do folks eat through winter? You can't put everyone on organic. That starves people."

Lena looked at him. "I'm only saying—don't overpromise on the flyers."

"Banpong." White spoke. "Do as Lena says. Soften the copy. Watch the disclaimers too."

Banpong nodded at once. "Understood."

Faisal blew a whistle so light it almost wasn't there. "Sounds like everyone's busy."

White looked at him.

Faisal pressed the sunglasses back up his nose. The lazy smile cut off halfway.

They should have broken up there.

But Sylvie set another thin folder on the table, fingertip on the seal.

"The three union reps registered at the street mouth—the roster comes tonight," she said. "We've logged the loudest ones as well."

White frowned. "What do you intend?"

"Let them learn a little of how hard life is," Sylvie said. "Training, school, loans, rent… jam any one of those pipes and they'll have plenty to think about."

White watched her. His brow eased a fraction, then set again.

"Don't blow it up," he said. "We're a guild, not a street gang. Keep the cheap tricks off the table—and watch the talk outside."

"Of course." Sylvie lowered her eyes; her voice dropped half a step. "I'll have the Fox handle it. He's thorough. He knows where the line is."

White nodded.

"Dismissed."

Chair legs shifted on the carpet with almost no sound. The side door opened. The maids who'd waited outside came back in—coats for the councilors, the path out, cold tea cleared from the table.

The man with the blade still stood inside the door.

Only when White rose did he step half a pace forward and clear the way to the side door. The long sheath slanted with the motion, then stilled.

Before the door shut, Crystone light still held steady on the long table.

The papers stayed under the lamp, as if the noise in the streets had never truly entered the room.